


Cross my Heart

by DammitToby



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DammitToby/pseuds/DammitToby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To fill the prompt received on tumblr: Bones Lying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross my Heart

_I don't remember what it was we had talked about. Well, not all of it, just that it was one of those soft nights, staring at the stars and laying out our darkest truths in stories, pretending we weren't the main characters. I remember you were talking for a long time, and that you looked at me near the end and stopped._

_"Don't pity me. This isn't a tragedy. I_ lived _."_

_"I'm not pitying you." But it's too late. I see you withdraw from me.  
_

_"Don't lie to me."_ _I can see the familiarity of the situation to you, the heartbreak that yet another person you thought you could trust has let you down, and I know I can't let you do that._

_"I'm not lying. I'd never lie to you."_

_You want to believe me._

_"I'm impressed, and it makes me heartsick to think these things can happen, but I don't pity you, Jim."_

_You come creeping back slowly, a faun in a clearing, expecting to be sent flying back into your protection at any second._

_"Cross my heart and hope to die."_

_Maybe you won't believe me, but that wasn't just a ploy to get you to come back. I meant it._

* * *

 

~

I get it, I really do. We're coming down from the first successful five-year mission, and on our way home, we  stumble on a bit of space that was thought to be charted, except there was a planet where there shouldn't be. And on the planet that shouldn't exist there was a race of hyper-advanced beings that don't want to deal with us, but are not hostile in the slightest. They also hint that they know how to cure the fear of death.

So really, I understand that's why you agree to their ludicrous terms for their secret. I mean, sure, it's only a logic puzzle, but most logic puzzles don't have a 75% chance of death upon failure.

Maybe I do understand better than I think I do, though, because I catch you shooting a glance back at me. _Oh. Right. Death_.

It wouldn't be the first time you've died.

I know many people think you've gotten over it, but I know better. I see the flicker in your eyes, the true reason behind a few hesitations. You remember death, and it scares you.

So we wait for the High Council to set up their demonstration, which, if we get it right, we will know the cure to the fear of death. I, personally, was expecting something elaborate, but instead they bring out two cups and place them in front of our table.

"One holds certain death, the other a short life. Choose one and you will understand what it is to never fear death again."

I know the answer.

At least, I think I do, and the entire thing makes me angry. I look over at you again, and I see the same blank game face I've come to expect when faced with impossible scenarios that have losing odds. I look over you to Spock, but he's deep in the logical confines of his own mind, in the place he goes when a particularly hard logic puzzle comes too light. Beyond him, I see the crew, and the tension.

We're so close to home, and all of that might be undone, right here, right now, over the answer to riddle that has no real answer.

I peer into the cups. They contain a liquid that is the same shade of warning orange, the same faint whiff of burnt paper and cloves, and all this confirms that I know the answer. Glancing back, it's clear you are hesitating, trying to plot the right move on a chessboard of two pieces. Spock's brow is furrowed, like he does when he reruns the tests because he's unsatisfied by the conclusion. The crew hangs back, silent, waiting.

"I can do this." I say, though it comes out more heart-heavy and tired than I meant it to. I see your heads turn in unison, the confusion and surprise clear on both your faces.

"Bones-"

"Doctor, are you certain-?"

I cut you both off (especially Spock) with a scowl. "Yeah, I'm certain, and if you two numbskulls are just going to dally around when we have a date with Starfleet Headquarters instead of answer the damn challenge, then I might as well step up and cut to the chase."

I turn to the beings, who watch with detached interest (as opposed to the pure detached they displayed earlier), and take a step forward. A hand closes around my sleeve.

"Bones." Your eyes can plead even with the rest of you locked in Captain mode. "You're sure you know what you're doing?"

I know you can feel the adrenaline kicking up my heart beat. You know fear and anticipation when you see it, and worse yet, you know when I'm lying, so I attempt a smile, and offer you the most sincerity I can give at the moment, "Cross my heart, Jim."

The walk to the table takes no time at all, which is a shame because I know what's waiting there. I grab the glass on the right, not caring which since they both were the same, and glare at the Council.

"You're all sadistic assholes. Let the crew go."

A moment passes, I hear some choked protest behind me, and the Eldest of the Council bobs her head once.

I take the drink.

Dying feels like a curtain dropping, and not at all what I expected.

~

I relearn the smell and sound of my med bay before I relearn the sight of it. _So I'm not dead_ , I think, the wonder of it all fading fast with my consciousness. But thinking back to all the other times this has happened to other people, maybe that fact isn't so surprising after all.

~

You avoid me when I wake up, when I'm cleared for duty, when I walk onto the Bridge. You're not the only one who's angry. My staff is chilly, Spock is back to being terse, Uhura wields words with sharp edges, Sulu doesn't make eye contact and speaks to the floor, Chekov speaks when spoken too but otherwise not at all.

You call me McCoy, and then only when you absolutely have to address me.

I don't think I mind, this is nothing new for me. I don't mind at all, because we are almost home, we have almost returned from a five-year voyage into the lonliest frontier of them all: space.

I don't mind one bit.

~

I'd seen you across the bar, looking every bit like you did our first year at the Academy, and I have to wonder if you wear your surroundings, if the Captainly glow is something you only know on Fleet ground, because right now you wear the smoke and drunken clatter of the bar.

"If you’re looking for an apology, you’re not getting one. I did what was necessary." I say when you finally grace me with your presence. Your forced calm shatters on impact, which is fine by me because I'm in no mood to handle any kind of mask. Especially from you.

"Oh bullshit, McCoy. You only needed to tell them the answer. The cups were symbolic."

I raise an eyebrow above my first glass of whiskey in Earth's atmosphere. "You knew?"

"That they were both poison? Yeah. It was kind of obvious." You're exasperated, but not as angry as I expected. Just tired. "Why?"

"There's no cure for the fear of death. There's only facing it."

"I figured that part out." I don't believe you. "I meant, why did you lie to me?"

I pause. "I didn't."

"Bull. Shit."

I can feel the petty anger rising up, that somehow me lying was more important than me dying, and wasn't that just a kicker? "I can face death, Jim. That was not a lie.”

“No you can’t.” When frustration builds to the point of popping, it snaps through your words with sharp points. But because you’re you, you realize how it sounds and immediately guilt follows. “That’s not what I-”

“Are you asking me to resign, Captain?” We’re talking as equals, as friends. I know you hate it when I bring your rank to these talks. It doesn’t get a raise out of you like I wanted, though. Your face just falls.

“No, Bones, that’s not-” you take a breath. “Do you know why the crew is angry?”

“They think I lied to them?”

“You almost died.”

I frown. You take up in the confused silence. “I’m not saying you can’t handle facing death. I’m saying for the the sake of the crew, for my sake, I can’t let you.”

My frown is gone. Now I’m just staring at you. “Jim-”

Your eyes are down-turned as if that could hide vulnerability, and your voice is strong but too quick for me to get a word in. “You’re our safety, okay? Medical is where the crew goes to be healed, to be saved from death. You run Medical, not just on paper, you make sure your presence is everywhere, keeping the crew healthy and safe. And there you go, putting that on the line in front of everyone!”

“Jim.” I place my hand on your arm and grip. Sometimes the physical is the only way to ground you from whatever moral or metaphysical annals you’ve gotten lost in. “You said it yourself, the cups were symbolic. Drinking from the cups was symbolic, too. The only way to lose was to never drink from the cups at all and deny mortality, which to that race would be terms for dismissal of our Federation and the lives of our crew. They were poisoned, but only symbolically, only with a poison that mimicked death. I was never going to really die.”

“You didn’t know that!”

“You didn’t know refusing to drink wouldn’t have ended in the entire crew dying, either. It was a gamble.”

“You gambled with your life.”

“Our lives.” I take a drink from my almost forgotten tumbler. “But I thought I knew the answer, and I wasn’t afraid to take the consequences.”

“You weren’t afraid to die.” You say this flatly. We’ve known each other a long, long time, you know about my thoughts on death. You’ve watched them. I meet your eyes and hold them until you know I’m sincere.

“I’m afraid to die meaninglessly. What good is an accidental death? But if me dying does some good, if it saves you, then no. I’m not afraid to die like that.”

I never meant to break your heart, but you’ve got to learn sometime. I’m not the only one that will die for you. I take another drink, pretending not to notice you wipe your eyes.

“So,” you say, the remnant of emotion making your voice raw, “you did lie to me.”

It wouldn’t be the first promise I broke. “Technically. Only if I were wrong, but we’re both still here.”

Maybe you accept that. Maybe we’ve grown so that you’re no longer ready to bolt at the slightest sign of imperfection in our friendship. I’m never sure of what goes on in that big brain of yours. What I am sure of is the next morning, when I walk on the Bridge, you smile and call me Bones again.


End file.
